Slaughterhouse Manners
by lookskindagreyout
Summary: Exploits of life in a mad house.
1. Story one: Slaughterhouse Manners

Hello!

These short stories battered around in my head for a long time, before I could settle my thoughts and put them down into something fathomable for the general public. They mainly started as a series of 'what if's and 'wouldn't it be charming if…'-you know, the kinds of thoughts used to fill a boring hour of menial tasks, such as doing laundry, walking to the bus shop, or performing prefrontal lobotomies. In my opinion, Dashiell Kim was an interesting bit of trivia about Walter, and it would be kind of nice if there was a scene where Peter interrupted his father while he was writing a letter to his old friend.

Idle wants, idle.

_*I do not own Fringe, and any weirdness discovered in my useless, time-killing paragraphs can and will be used against me in a court of law._

Story One: _Slaughterhouse Manners_

Walking to his cell seemed to be more of a crying shame that the walk down the courtroom aisle for his conviction. The sanitation shower had chilled him far more than standing with his lawyer, in a courtroom full of reproachful stares, as they had read his sentence; life, in St. Claire's State mental facility.

He knew he was crazy. Perhaps it was just now sinking in.

They said nothing to him as he reached the tiny room, and they snapped away his hard rubber restraints, moving him inside. He only listened to the jingle of the key ring as they left the room, shutting the door. A grinding squeak as the tumblers of the lock fell into place, and a few moments later, a dull buzz as they exited the ward, leaving him in silence.

They had passed thirteen cells, seven on the right, six on the left. He was cell six, on the left. The room was twelve foot by ten foot, meaning there were 112 tiles on the floor. 1456 tiles in the ward, so far. No, no, that couldn't be right, he'd forgotten to compute the ones in the hallway…Dashiell Kim sat on the side of his steel bed, his gaze unmoving from the floor. He was missing something again. The equation was always missing something. Why was he so stupid? His beautiful wife had died, because he was so stupid…

Dashiell felt his chest heave under his chin in a mute sob. His throat hurt, his eyelids were swollen and achy, and his head pounded. But still, the numbers kept running, in his brain. Three lights, in the room. Half of his cell number. Two separate windowpanes, covered with a fine mesh, to prevent shattering.

Dashiell did not dare allow his thoughts to stray to _the_ equation. No, no, that was far too dangerous, he hated it. He hated anything he couldn't understand. They had tempted him into the abyss, by giving him everything and then taking it all away. So, so, so stupid. He hadn't deserved what they had offered him, he was so stupid.

Dashiell dropped his chin to his chest again, allowing his arms to lay limply across his knees. Time passed, and he timed it with the dull, slow throb of his pulse. 10,817 heartbeats, then an orderly shuffled in with a steel tray of food, and a syringe. Dashiell did not move, as he felt the burning pressure of the needle in his arm, and only slowly blinked when the door banged shut.

Dashiell began to construct an equation to subtract his heartbeats to zero.

xXx

Walter Bishop was having a dream. It was strange, because he hadn't had one in a very long time.

"You can _hold _him, Walt. He's not an explosive," she was laughing.

"Yes, but…" he protested weakly.

She bypassed his indecision with a frown, hefting the baby boy in her arms, then plopping him into his father's lap.

Walter tensed immediately as his son settled in his lap "Peter-it's-I'm not-!" he sighed as she laughed again, leaning in the kiss him and touch his hair.

"Walt," she murmured fondly, "He's your son. He's going to love you, even if you don't know what to do, sometimes."

"But-"

"You can't know until you at least _touch_ him. It's like you've been allergic, the last five months. Besides, you two are adorable together- he looks just like you." and she left the room.

Walter wondered if he could move or not, with Peter in his lap. He froze, as the sleeping baby twisted around, opening his eyes wide. They were changing, again- from green, like his mother, to blue, like Walters'.

"Um, hello, little one," Walter managed to say.

A wide smile spread across Peter's face, his eyes sparkling. Walter felt heat rush his face immediately, "Yes, daddy's a idiot, isn't he? Look how handsome you are. Look at that." Walter found himself echoing his son's smile, as a bright giggle bubbled back in reply.

Peter wrapped his tiny, soft hand around Walter's thumb. Walter stared, with baited breath, as Peter examined it curiously, then, abruptly, engulfed the thumb in his mouth with a small slurping noise.

"Argh-Peter-no-"

Peter only smiled up at him.

Walter paused in his discomfort, then sat back, sighing in fond hopelessness, "Very well, Peter. You must be terribly tired of sucking your own thumb, so we can share mine, okay?" Peter's tiny digits gathered the cloth of Walter's shirt sleeve as his father stooped to kiss his forehead gently.

Walter awoke as the buzzer of the ward sounded, and he hurried to dry the tears from his face before his cell door swung open for inspection.

It was always so cold, in the morning. St. Claires was simply a cold place. Even when the summer outside the chain-link turned green, the halls stayed a chilling shade of cement grey. When Walter was feeling under the weather, his eyes would sometimes match, in the depressing color.

They were simply red and itchy, today.

Walter rolled onto his back with a sigh, sniffing back his runny nose and scratching back his mussed curls, straying his itching behind his ear for a few moments before returning his hand to his chest with a soft cough.

"Dr. Bishop. Up and at 'em." came the voice through the open door. A male nurse stood at the ready, watching him cautiously.

"Okay," Walter answered softly.

Groggily, he sat up and climbed out of bed, gathering his folded, grey jumpsuit and white, featureless sneakers, holding them to his chest as he shuffled out of the room, dressed in his under shorts and white tee-shirt. In a numb daze, he stood beside his door, waiting for the instructions to exit and head for the showers.

Why that dream? Why now? He hadn't dreamt of Peter in six years. All the horrible nightmares had stopped after the first few months, but the other dreams, the memories of when he was happy, they had lingered painfully for what seemed an eternity of sadness.

He would rather wake in a screaming madness than sobbing sanity.

He did not have much time to ponder his melancholy thoughts, before his eye caught something _new_. It almost frightened him, and he suddenly found himself staring, immersed in wonderment of the man that stood across the hall from him.

He was tiny, firstly. And round. Wide glasses rested on his round face, obscuring his dark, thin, Asian eyes. Short, black hair stood away from his head in spiky parts, and his jumpsuit was wrinkled and disheveled, as if he had slept in it.

He glared at Walters attention, as if daring him to speak.

Walter smiled at him. He had decided immediately that he would like him. The stranger was like an angry Shiba Inu, and he had had a neighbor in Baltimore that had a Shiba Inu that he was quite fond of.

Kind of like an irate little shogun. Or emperor. Or something.

Walter realized that he was still staring. The Shiba Inu, finding that his glare had had no affect on the completely absent Walter, turned his anger down the hall at the barred door. Walter opened his mouth to address him, but was cut off as the instruction came through to continue on to the showers.

The Shiba Inu followed after the other occupants of the ward without another glance at Walter, his chin tipped slightly up in defiance. Walter smiled again. What an _adorable _new friend.

xXx

Idiots. This place was filled with idiots, like cattle, waiting to be drawn to the slaughter. That idiot-looking man with that idiot-looking grin that made Dashiell feel like an idiot.

But at least the showers had been warm, a welcome break from the chill in his chest that had appeared when he had entered this place, and seemed to settle in as a permanent resident.

Dashiell was a bit upset with the sorry, unkempt state of his jumpsuit, when he was informed that he would not be offered a new one until that night, before 'lights out'. But he was quick to realize that there were far worse states that he could be in, as he watched the assisted occupants struggle with their nurses in an attempt to dress themselves.

The catatonics did not do much.

Breakfast. Bland, flavorless. But his sever hunger pangs forced him to consume the nearly colorless food, and not much was left on the tray when he stacked it into the pile with the rest. He couldn't help but notice that that man was _still_ watching him. And, much to Dashiell's agitation, kept _smiling_.

_What are you, in love with me, you freaking weirdo?_

Dasheill knew that, economically, asylums seemed to be a drain on the economy. Experts said that the mentally unstable were incapable of adding anything into society, and were therefore considered dead weight. Many times before, Dashiell had wondered to himself why the government did not cut their losses, and eliminate their funding on trivial things such as these, and focus on more important matters of the national budget. Now, he wondered what would have happened to him if people like the one he used to be ran the world.

Maybe something better than this- a permanent, mind-numbing naptime.

Dashiell entered the ward day room to find an assortment of angry, unstable-looking individuals…and the smiling fool from cell thirteen. Frowning with uncomfortable annoyance, Dashiell searched out a place to spend his time…the farthest away from him.

A tall fellow with a jutting jaw seemed to take offense to Dashiells' general presence in the dayroom. His hard, small eyes gazed up at Dashiell with unbased contempt, and the stranger got to his feet as Dashiell took a seat near the window in the corner. He strode over, his tall, lanky frame looming over Dashiell uncomfortably. Slowly, cautiously, Dashiell got to his feet, moving away, wondering perhaps if the aggression he had experienced was territorial. His hypothesis was inconclusive, as the ominous stranger continued to follow him. Three times, Dashiell moved, still shadowed by wordless threat.

Dashiell glanced over to see if the cell thirteen was still watching him. He was. No smile existed, on his face, replaced only by cool, calm calculation, and as Dashiell met his blue-grey gaze, the smiling fool got to his feet. Dashiell's thoughts returned to his own problems.

If he hit the angry stranger… would that establish a certain dominance? Would he be rid of any other troubles that might befall him, simply by striking first, striking hard? But getting into something on his first day… such indecision was like being thrown into the petty bullying of elementary school all over again. Cold sweat, the beginnings of adrenaline, began to start on his brow, as the aggressive stranger neared, and Dashiell turned to face him.

Dashiell exclaimed as he was suddenly gripped by the back of the collar, and pulled backward, a human form stepping between himself and the tall stranger. The smiling fool gazed calmly, yet warningly, up at his opposition, "Patch," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, "you're being _rude_."

They stared at each other a few moments silently. Then, grudgingly, 'Patch' returned to his seat on the sofa.

Dashiell didn't know how to react, as he analyzed the situation. Would he seem weak, now that he had been defended? Would this make matters worse? Would the smiling fool expect something of him, now? His defenses immediately rose as his guardian turned to him.

"'Sorry about Patch," he said, smiling again, "new things tend to put him…off."

"I guess I should thank you," Dashiell replied gruffly, "I didn't really expect manners, in a place like this."

His smile faded, "It's an asylum," he said, "not a preschool." Dashiell did not know if there was understanding in the strangers' voice, or mild offense. Dashiell immediately felt sorry for his uncalculated comment, but made no attempt to voice his remorse.

The stranger diffused the discomfort of the situation with a smile, offering his hand, "I'm Walter, Walter Bishop."

"Good for you," Dashiell replied coldly, turning away, "I don't need friends, and I don't want them."

"Does your nose often bleed, when you're upset?" Walter questioned, and Dashiell snapped his hand to his upper lip with a curse. Walter only smiled again, "I'll bet you get sick, after a confrontation. Some people simply don't take well to adrenaline. Take it easy." he took him by the shoulder, "Come on, let's get a seat for _The Price is Right_."

xXx


	2. Story two: The Good Shepherd

Story Two:_ The Good Shepherd_

"So, what was it, you used to do?" Dashiell asked Walter one day, as they sat, staring down into their unappetizing lunches.

Walter frowned, attempting to sneak his butterscotch pudding onto Dashiell's tray, "…I used to test soap," he answered.

A smile touched Dashiell's face, as he tipped the carton of pudding back to his friend, "Really? And how did you manage to end up in a place like this, doing something so charming as testing soap?"

"It was excellent soap, really. Go on, have my pudding- you need calcium to grow big and strong."

"I don't want your damn pudding. And stop trying to steal my spork, you do that every time. Crayons, too."

"Sorry," Walter said, his shoulders slouching in dismay as he returned the plastic spork to the table, "it's a bit of a habit, I fear."

"Okay, so you won't tell me why you're here," Dashiell said, starting in on his bland macaroni and cheese, "so I'll let it pass. Here's the deal- you don't ask about me, I won't ask about you."

"That sounds fair," Walter admitted, fiddling with his own string beans, beginning to sort them into rows of longest to shortest. He ate an odd one, "But we won't get to be very good friends, if I don't know if you're a Bee Gees fan or not."

Dashiell laughed, "Who the hell are the Bee Gees?"

Walter's eyes rounded in horror, "You… oh, dear god, my poor fellow, you're worse of than I first thought."

Dasheill laughed again. It was strange, how if felt as if he hadn't laughed in decades, and it seemed foreign to his ears. Walter was such a strange individual. For the first few days after he had met him, he found him nearly unbearable, uncertain if Walter's strange sense of humor was in jest or if he were openly mocking him. He had almost started to hate him, but the smiling fools' persistence had won him over, in the end. He had a friend, and was not alone, as he had first thought. Perhaps Walter thought the same thing. Nights alone with his thoughts and numbers were hell… but in the daylight, sitting with Walter and talking about nothing in particular, it wasn't so bad.

"I'm not like you, old man," Dashiell grinned, reaching over to disrupt Walters nearly perfect rows with his spork, "cramming cassettes into CD players."

It was Walter's turn to look confused, "What the hell is a CD player? Don't fiddle with my beans, you _angry _little ninja."

Dashiell sighed, rubbing his own forehead, "Oh, boy."

They both looked up as an orderly arrived, standing beside the table silently. Dashiell assumed it was to tell them to quiet down again, and exclaimed slightly as he dropped a fresh grey jumpsuit onto the table beside his tray, "Change and turn in your old uniform," he said gruffly, and walked away.

Dashiell looked confused as Walter frowned, reaching past him to gather the article, pulling it to himself and pull up the lapel of the garment, "Shit," he hissed under his breath, and pushed it away, glancing around darkly as he sipped his milk.

"What?" Dashiell questioned, examining it himself, "What's going on?"

"Do you see this?" Walter plucked at his own collar, and Dashiell noted the two, parallel, blue bars on both sides, stacked horizontally on his lapels. His new coverall had matching markings.

Walter did not look up from glaring down at his tray, "You're an elite, now. You've been added to Sumner's damn 'collection'."

"…I don't understand."

"I was hoping he'd miss you, he'd leave you alone…" Walter sighed, stabbing his potatoes glumly, "but the man's like a boarhound, rooting us out."

"Walter, what are you talking about? Rooting who out?"

Walter looked up at him, "The brilliant ones, Dashiell. He wants to crack one of us open and get famous."

xXx

_Don't think of me as 'Big Brother'. Think of me as the 'Good Shepherd' , keeping an eye on my flock._

"And this new fellow- Dashiell Kim. What is it that he does?"

"He _was _an astrophysicist, before he bludgeoned his wife to death with a tire iron."

"You're starting to get quite a collection, here, aren't you, Bruce? Ha ha."

"They are not possessions. They are people, and I have only the best interests of my patients in mind. I want to help them."

"By keeping them completely isolated? From each other, even?"

"Isolation is vital, for recovery. If any of my elites were to encounter something that might stimulate their thought process, it may cause a lapse, and revive their psychotic tendencies."

"And keeping them numb with drugs, vegetating in lawn chairs? Sounds more like hell to me. To be blessed with such brilliance, and then be unable to use your mind… you're torturing them."

"A hellish blessing. They have been damned for their minds- this relieves them from their curse of thought."

"You're a twisted man, Bruce. But I suppose that's what we pay you for. How is your favorite, then? Walter Bishop?"

"He's well. The night nurses reported him whimpering and sobbing in his sleep again. I don't know if he's gone back to stealing things, yet. I'm hoping that exposing him to Dashiell Kim will help them both into settling in. He's due for another review, soon."

"Will you let him go, this time?"

"No. He doesn't know about them, he won't miss them."

xXx

"What do you see, on this slide, Walter?" Dr. Sumner questioned, motioning to the projection screen. The optical illusion of the rabbit/duck shown in blurry focus.

Walter sat at the table, his hands folded as he obeyed Dr. Sumner calmly. Obligingly, he shifted in his seat, leaning forward and squinting. He blinked a few times, then tilted his head from side to side. "…A clothespin," he answered at last. He sat back, nodding in self-accomplishment, "Yes, a homosexual clothespin."

Dr. Sumner frowned at him, "You don't see a duck? Or a rabbit?" he asked quietly.

Walter brightened, "Rabbit? Where? Oh, on the slide. You see, I can't be very helpful to you without my glasses; I'm a bit nearsighted. I'm sure it's a wonderful dabbit. Or ruck. Or whatever."

Sumner swallowed back his anger, "You're toying with me again, aren't you?"

"Yes, Dr. Sumner. I daresay you should expect it, after so many years." Walter smiled at him briefly, before returning to fiddling with his hard rubber restraints.

Sumner folded his papers into the manila folder once more, "Ah, I see, not in the mood today, are we, Walter?"

"You're about as precise as a drunk teen on prom night," Walter replied.

Sumner smiled bitterly, "Yet still sarcastic. Very well," He tossed the file onto the table, leaning back on the surface with a sigh, "No more tests. How's that?"

"Uncharacteristically merciful, for you. Since you're feeling so charitable, would you complete your sainted acts by ending me with a shovel?"

"I'm not your enemy, Walter. I've been trying to tell you that for the past eight years. Yet, still, you seem intent with casting me into the role of villain," Sumner placed a hand on Walter's shoulder, "You bring much of this on yourself, you know."

"Gah, I'm such a masochist," Walter grinned bitterly.

"You condescend to everyone. It's not very nice."

"Not _everyone_. Just _you_."

"And what makes you say that, Walter?" Sumner questioned calmly.

"I'm a mean, old bastard. Can you get pissy and send me back to my cell, now?"

"We'll stay here for as long as it takes, Walter. And I'll keep you awake, like the other times. Sleep deprivation does strange things to people- you saw your father last time, didn't you? Robert? I remember how you were crying, trying to get away from something that wasn't there… I'll admit, the security tapes still make me laugh, sometimes." Sumner leaned forward, speaking softly into his ear, "How _did _he hurt you, Walter?"

Walter looked up at him with a dark smile, "Look at me," he laughed softly, "I'm _crazy_."

Dr. Sumner let out a cry as Walter stood suddenly, breaking his nose with a head butt. Sumner stumbled away, clutching his face in pain, and Walter calmly sat, a thin trial of foreign blood slowly oozing down his forehead. He did not struggle, as the orderlies entered, hauling him to his feet and crushing his arms to his sides, "Take him back to his cell!" Sumner spat, covering his gushing nostrils and glaring through tears of pain, "Keep testing me, Bishop! I know _exactly_ what it takes to break you down, and you know it!"

Sumner stopped a nurse as she passed, "Twenty extra cc's of Narcimine- I don't even want him to remember his own _name_." The nurse nodded, hurrying out after the orderlies that pulled Walter off down the hall.

xXx

"Hey, old man," Dashiell sat down next to Walter on the cold, uncomfortable, cement bench, looking out over the compound, "How are you doing?"

"I have no idea," Walter mumbled absently. His eyes were slow to turn to his friend, "…am I…well?"

Dashiell frowned in concern, "Walter, are you alright? Is something wrong?"

"I…I don't know," Walter blinked slowly, raising his sleeve to rub a spot of saliva from the corner of his mouth, "Did… something happen? I'm tired, really…"

Dashiell felt alarm growing in his mind, and carefully placed his hand on Walter's shoulder, to steady his swaying, "Hey…"

"Don't be alarmed," someone said, and Dashiell looked up at the smiling man in the lab coat before them, with two black eyes and a bandage across the bridge of his nose, "Walter will be fine. He's just having a minor reaction to his new medication regiment."

Dashiell looked back at the nearly catatonic Walter, who had returned to staring unblinkingly out across the compound. He returned his gaze the doctor, "Will he be alright?"

"Oh, he'll be fine. Walter's stubborn- aren't you, Walter?"

No response.

"You're Mr. Kim, aren't you? I'm Dr. Bruce Sumner, your psychiatrist." he held out his hand, and Dashiell rose, shaking it.

"Psychiatrist? But, why would…?"

Sumner laughed, "Mr. Kim, this is not a prison, it is a place of healing. I'm only here to help you."

"What happened to your face?" Dashiell questioned. _Did someone pop you for lying?_

"Ah, this," Sumner touched the bandage carefully, "some of the guests here are a little beyond help… so we do what we can to ease their pain, and let them be more at peace."

"Peace… like him?" Dashiell looked back at Walter, who had slumped over in the seat and rested his chin against his chest. Alarm grew in Dashiells' mind- to loose control like that… the possibility existed that perhaps he would not be able to keep fighting his mind back, and keeping the numbers that haunted him at bay… what kind of hell was Walter experiencing now, inside of himself?

"Alas, Walter is, as I said, stubborn. He simply refuses to let me treat him," Sumner sighed, "but, I'm certain we will not experience the same difficulties with you, will we, Mr. Kim?"

Swallowing on the threat, Dashiell only nodded quickly, shuttering at the thoughts of chemical lobotomy.

"Good." Sumner bid him farewell, and disappeared down the walkway.

Dashiell returned to his seat, sighing as he patted Walter gently on the shoulders, "Don't worry, old man. It'll be over soon, I promise."

xXx


	3. Story three: Perrenial Mind

Story Three: _Perennial Mind_

Numbers woke him, chilling his soul with fear. As if he had found himself laying in an ant hill, he scrambled out from under his blankets, batting the numbers away from his ears, the strikes stinging against his face. He landed on his back, sprawling against the cold floor. He let out a low, hollow wail, trembling and sweating.

"Dashiell."

He ignored the soft hailing, burying his face in his arms. It was a lie, just like _they _had lied to him… his eyes sprang open again as lights flashed before his eyes… _red red green red green green green…_

"Dashiell."

"Mira…?" Dashiell whimpered, wishing desperately that this was all some awful dream, that his wife would wake him and stroke his forehead, and all of the numbers on the walls would flow back into her broken skull.

"Dashiell, it's me. I'm sorry, but it's me, Walter. Are you having a relapse?" his voice was distant, from the bars of his cell window across the hall.

Dashiell sniffed, nodding against the cold tiles that he had so carefully counted, "uh-huh."

Walter sighed quietly, "…I hate those."

Dashiell got to his feet, standing on his toes to look out his own tiny cell window. Walter watched him, with his long, pail fingers curled around the darkened bars. He graced him with a smile, "Don't worry. You'll be okay. Try not to let the nurses know- they may report you, and that in itself is a big mess. If you have to… sleep with your hands over your mouth. So you can… so you can stop yourself from screaming." Walter's brief lesson seemed to sicken him as he taught it.

Dashiell nodded quietly, "I'll try."

"You can't let them know, Dashiell. Then they'll win."

"I know."

"I've been thinking a lot, lately, and there's something I wanted to tell you."

"What's that?" Dashiell asked, smiling slightly as he sniffed again, clearing his throat.

Walter frowned sadly, "I'm sorry my government dropped the A-bomb on your countrymen. It wasn't very nice of us."

Dashiell laughed openly, "What the hell, old man!?"

Walter grinned. He had accomplished what he had set out to do.

"I'm thinking of getting out of here, Walter," Dashiell said. Walter's smile immediately faded, and Dashiell continued hopefully, "I could do it, Walter. These idiots wouldn't even know-"

"Dashiell, _no._"

Offense shaped Dashiells' face, and slight contempt, "Why?"

Walter was silent for a few moments, "We… we belong in here. And I know it sounds cruel, but… we have to protect them."

"Who? Who do we owe a damn thing to, Walter?!" Dashiell demanded.

"Everyone that isn't like us. We're here so we can't hurt them, and… and we have to stay, so they can go on living, being happy… even if it means we can't."

Dashiell was silent, as his friend's statements sunk in. "I guess so," he replied at last. There was more silence between them, as they listened to the gentle breathing and occasional whimpering in the night, "You're pretty smart, old man."

"You take that back right now, Astro Boy. Wash your mouth out with soap."

Dashiell smiled, "Fine. How about wise?"

"Like Buddha?"

Dashiell laughed softly.

"Besides, I'm escaping as we speak. As I'm sure your studies have informed you, the world rides on tectonic plates. In a couple billion years, I'll be in Bratislava," Walter reasoned smugly.

Dashiell laughed until his sides ached when he breathed, and he sopped his eyes with his tee-shirt front, "And how are you keeping count, now? Watching mountains sprout?"

"I hadn't thought about keeping count," Walter mused, rubbing his chin, "But I suppose I should. Tallies, you think?"

"What are you, ten? We're scientists, Walter. There has to be some rational, professional way-"

"I've got it! I'll grow a _beard_! It'll be brilliant!"

xXx


	4. Story four: This is the Best Day Ever

Story four: _This is the Best Day Ever._

"So, then, the woman comes into the office, and-and- god, man, she's wearing one of those-" gasping with laughter, Dashiell motioned to his nose.

Walter gaped in delight, "_Rhinoplasty_? For an astrophysicist? What for, the _gravity _of the situation?!"

Dashiell nodded, laughing, "And then, in an air of _complete _contempt, she _demands_ to see the accelerator. And all I can think is, if that bandage-"

"_Did _it?!"

"She was chasing it around and around the accelerator, screaming like a madwoman- _It's got my nose! Stop! It's got my damn nose!_"

Dashiell and Walter howled with laughter, gasping for breath, and at last, Walter wiped his eyes, asking, "You _did _stop it, didn't you?"

"…Eventually," Dashiell replied with a sly grin, beginning to pull on his jumpsuit over his under shorts, "she didn't come back to our sector for a good three months afterward, I think."

Walter chuckled, shaking his head. Tightening the towel around his waist, he considered into the cracked mirror, his fingers perusing his now thick beard, "I'm thinking getting a bit of work done myself, what do you think? I could be pretty."

"That's a stretch, old man, even for you," Dashiell replied, shaking his head.

Walter looked comically hurt, "Typical man! You never consider my feelings!" and Dashiell laughed.

"Why are you in such a good mood today, Dr. Bishop?" and orderly asked, being summoned by the noise.

"Ah, my good fellow. Many moons ago, when the world was young, there was a magical place called 'Manhattan'-"

"It's his birthday," Dashiell summed, cutting him off.

"Oh. Well, Dr. Sumner needs to see you."

Walter's smiled faded.

"Hey," Dashiell said, rising to place a hand on his shoulder, "Listen, it's probably nothing. Don't let him get to you this time, Walt. Just answer his questions, and if he gets too nosey-"

"Stick him in an accelorater," Walter interrupted, returning to his cheerful demeanor, "Don't worry about me, Dashiell, nothing could get me down, today. I guess I'll see you for lunch, then?" He began to dress.

"Yeah. Listen- don't take too long, I've got a surprise for your birthday, okay?"

Walter paused, setting his hands on his hips, "Dashiell, you dirty dog. You got me a stripper, didn't you? I knew it! Don't worry, I'll act surprised." he gave him a wink and left the room.

Dashiell sighed, shaking his head, "Be careful, old man."

xXx

"Are you awake, Walter?"

His hands felt slick with blood as the world returned to focus, and only a soft moan escaped the mask strapped over his mouth a nose. He thought of piano chords.

"Can you hear me, Walter?"

_Shhh. You're interrupting my symphony. _

Dr. Sumner leaned over the hospital gurney, "How long has it been, do you know? A day, Walter, a year? You see what I can do to you. You can live, if you like… rotting away like this. If you call that living."

_Shut up, damn it. Can't you see they've given me an ovation? They scream for an encore. Who are you to deny them this?_

"You have to ask yourself if it's worth it, Walter Bishop. Of all the men in this place, I truly believe you are the most hopeless."

_I don't… I don't want to hear you. I want to hear my music… I made it, and you're taking it from me… you've taken everything from me…_

"You can make it out of here. I think that giving you the hope of such a thing is just cruel- why would a son you've never known care enough to save you? No one cares about you, Walter Bishop. No one gives a good god damn."

_It's true, it's true, I hate you it's true._ Walter shut his eyes tightly, trying to find the symphony, to wrap himself in the notes and hide. Hot tears flowed, uninterrupted, from his eyes.

"But I care, Walter. I care about what happens to you."

_You're lying again. Everyone hates me, you son of a bitch, and you know it. Don't touch me. No one should touch me… no one should hold me, and tell me that they love me… because it's a lie._ The gurney rattled with tears as Walter trembled and moaned, wishing with all he was that it could have been his own, faceless son stroking his hair, as he weakly gripped Dr. Sumner's hand in his own.

"That's it, Walter. I'll save you, if you let me."

_It's not going to work. No matter how much I need someone, I don't need YOU._

_MY CONTEMPT IS STRONGER THAN THIS._

Walter barred his teeth behind the mask, digging his fingernails into the meat of Sumner's thumb. _I despise you utterly, you sick son of a bitch. This should be your throat._ Sumner pulled his hand away sharply, and Walter smiled coldly behind his tears as he saw the blood, and Sumner turned away, anger burning in his eyes.

He returned a few moments later with a syringe, holding it where Walter could see, as he inserted it into his IV, "Wake up, Walter," Sumner whispered with a smile.

Walter's body contorted with pain, and he screamed, pulling against the restraints as his blood burned. An eternity passed, and he settled down again as his skin began to itch agonizingly, and he lay in the sheets, twitching uncontrollably. "Walter, _look at me_!" Sumner hissed, gripping the sides of his face as glaring down at him, "I don't want to do this to you, but you _must _learn, you _must_ obey! I am GOD, do you understand?!"

"I…" Walter managed hoarsely, his throat aflame, "I never liked him much, either."

xXx

Dashiell stared out at the rain from his walk along the outdoor corridor, finding dry refuge under the building overhang. _Only in a place like this,_ the thought to himself, _could there be rain in July. Proof that hell can, in fact, freeze over, and has done so._

Dashiell paused from his musings to look out, across the compound. Walters' listless form slumped on the ground, his back against the chain link. Dashiell frowned with worry, and jogged off around the corner to reach him, the rain beginning to drench his hair and clothes. He reached his friend, and dropped to one knee, touching his shoulder, "Walter?" he questioned softly.

"Hey, Tokyo Rose ," Walter replied, shivering. His skin was feverish, under Dashiells' hand.

"Jesus, Walter- I think you're having some sort of reaction," Dashiell exclaimed, pulling back Walter's collar to see crimson sores growing raw on his neck, "What the hell did he _do_ to you?! You need to get some help-"

Walter looked up at him, his eyes the same color as the wet cement, "I am getting help. The cold slows the flow of the penicillin in my bloodstream-" he winced slightly, "but that's not to say it doesn't sting like a _bitch_."

"He gave you penicillin? You're allergic to penicillin."

"He's given me a lot of things, I suspect. But whatever. I've had to go the distance, but I have an enemy. I can't exist without an enemy, Dashiell- I _need _an enemy. Really, I guess I am a masochist." Walter wheezed with pain, contorting to attempt to protect his stinging skin.

"They've killed you, old man," Dashiell whispered softly, "Look at you- you're dying."

"Nuh-uh. I can't die. It'd be far too easy."

Dashiell took a seat beside Walter, resting his cheek and his friend's trembling shoulder, "They'll kill us both, in this place," Dashiell shut his eyes, a tear escaping to flee down his cheek, "I'm sorry, old man. I'm so sorry." _I'm sorry for everything. That I'm weak, that you fight a battle I gave up on. That I didn't just give you my stupid crayons. That it's your birthday, and soon it'll be mine, and no one out there cares. I'm weak. I deserve to be here. But you don't._

There was a hot feeling on Dashiell arm, and Walter weakly held onto his wrist, his hand damp with sweat, "I'll be okay. Don't cry, Chung King."

"You're a moron. I'm from Brooklyn."

"How wonderful. We have a Brooklyn here in America, too." Walter smiled faintly.

"I've got your present, old man," Dashiell remembered, drawing out a small box, "Now, don't laugh. I had to do one of the orderlies' trig homework for a month, so he could smuggle this in for me."

"That's a bit hard not to at least chuckle at," Walter replied with a smile, accepting the box in his shaking hands. He carefully lifted the cardboard lid, peeking inside. He shut it again, "Dashiell. You-you really shouldn't have."

Dashiell smirked fondly, "You're tearing up, old man."

"That's because… it's perfect." his voice choked slightly, and he cleared his throat.

"I guess you know why I couldn't get a real candle. But you seemed quite intent on getting my purple crayon, last time, so I figured it would work. Happy birthday, old man."

Walter looked in on the frosted pink cupcake, tucked carefully into the box, topped with a single, violet Crayola, and he smiled. He threw his arms around Dashiells' shoulders and quietly cried into his collar.

xXx


	5. Story five: Shave goodbye

Story Five: _Shave (Goodbye)_

"I was thinking that Saltwater taffy sounds _amazing,_ right now. What do you think? Do you like taffy? I had some taffy from a little beach shop in California once, it was outstanding."

"You and your damn sweets. I don't know why I sit with you, if you keep rambling on about things we can't have." Dashiell took an unenthusiastic bite of his butterscotch pudding, and returned the spork to his tray, trying to concentrate.

"Because I'm a funny old man, and I amuse you," Walter replied, "And I visit with you because you're an Asian, and you're teaching me the secrets of the _shinobi,_" Walter paused, and leaned in closer, over the chess board, whispering, "and I think I have a crush on you."

Dashiell chuckled, "Whatever. I knew when I first met you that you were weird, so I wouldn't be surprised." He moved his rook a few squares.

Walter smirked, and sat back in his seat, taking Dashiells' rook with his knight, "Do you know how strange our children would look?"

Dashiell coughed in surprise, "Hey, no, let's not get into this…"

"Checkmate," Walter muttered lightly.

"You always get me with your bishop," Dashiell complained as they began to clear the board, "I don't know how that is. I look at the equation every way, and I don't know how you manage to sneak such a powerful piece in…"

"No one's ever taken a bishop from me," Walter replied, stroking the white chess piece in his palm with his thumb, "It's… kind of my signature, you know."

"It's because you distract me with your senseless psychobabble," Dashiell grumbled, setting up his pawns in a line, "If I just ignored you-" Dashiell stilled.

Walter looked up, at his sudden silence, "Dashiell? Hello?"

Dashiells' fingers began twitch unconsciously against his leg, and numbers began to dribble, uncontrolled, from his stammering lips. He looked up at Walter, whispering, "You solved it."

"Do I win something?" Walter joked.

Dashiell swallowed, feeling ill, "You…_you _solved it."

"Dashiell…?"

"You son of a bitch. YOU SOLVED IT." Dashiell felt burning hate begin to fill his own chest, and he bared his teeth, "_I'll kill you_!"

Walter let out a cry as Dashiell vaulted the table, seizing him by the throat as they tumbled backward, chess pieces flying. The plastic chair broke as they hit the floor, and Dashiell snarled, ramming his thumbs into Walters' esophagus. Walter choked, and pried away the grip, coughing, "Dashiell-stop-!"

"She's dead, because of you!" Dashiell shrieked, "They didn't want _you_, they wanted _me_! And I was too fucking stupid to see it- And _you _solved it! Mira could have _lived_! I'll _kill _you!"

"Dashiell!" Walter keened, attempting to hold him by the wrists as he struggled.

"Was it all a joke, to you?! Did you like to watch me suffer, to wallow in my ignorance?! Why didn't they choose _you?!_" Dashiell twisted Walter's arm sharply, feeling a grinding crunch. Walter yelped, releasing him to cradle the appendage. Dashiell took the opportunity to swoop up a spork, raising it above his head to plunge it into Walter's eye.

Walter dodged, as the utensil glanced off of his brow, creating a large gash. Dashiell roared, raising it again.

He was caught by the wrist and pried away from Walter by two orderlies, as he continued to struggle and kick, "_I'll kill you! I hate you! You murdered my Mira!_" He spat.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Dashiell, I didn't mean it!" Walter wailed, clutching his arm in pain, "I'm sorry!"

Dashiell continued to scream at his fallen companion as the nurses drug him away.

xXx

Solitary confinement was nothing short of an annoyance. Dashiell woke in the morning earlier, to shower with constant supervision, and sat alone in his room for the rest of the day, receiving only meals three times a day. He would listen to the movement of the other inpatients, and simply curse them bitterly.

Every night, exactly one hour after lights out, when none were certain to be awake, and Javier had long finished his requiem of 'Row Your Boat', Dashiell would hear a soft call of his own name from across the hall.

He did not reply, shutting his eyes and pretending to be asleep.

"I'm sorry, Dashiell," Walter would repeat. And there would be silence until morning, when Walter would pause by his door, and whisper his apology again.

He had said it 117 times, so far.

xXx

"What seems to be the problem, Mr. Kim?" Dr. Sumner asked, sitting across the table from him.

"I would like to be transferred to a new ward," Dashiell replied.

Dr. Sumner smirked faintly, "Your request is noted, Mr. Kim. But we cannot transfer you on a whim. Is there a problem?"

"I…" Dashiell swallowed, "I have to get away from Walter Bishop."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"I hate him. I want to kill him." Dashiell dropped his gaze to his restraints, stressing them slightly with his wrists.

"I thought Walter was your friend," Sumner said, "he speaks quite fondly of you, during our sessions."

"I don't care," Dashiell rubbed his runny nose on his sleeve, "I hate him."

"Why?"

"He killed Mira."

"Dashiell, _you_ killed your wife."

Dashiell shook his head quickly, a tear battering the lens of his spectacles, "That's because… because I couldn't figure it out. He figured it out- they could have taken _him, _and left me alone… and Mira…"

Dr. Sumner sighed quietly, "Dashiell. We can't transfer you to a new ward."

Dashiell balked, "But-"

"Because Walter Bishop is leaving."

"What? Where is he going?"

Dr. Sumner leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head, "A woman arrived from the FBI. She had his son with her. Apparently, he's become useful again, so they're taking him out."

Dashiell merely stared in amazement.

"Damn be to his state of health," Sumner went on bitterly, "But it doesn't matter to the government, it seems. I guess we're trusting criminals and mad men, now."

"Walter's getting out?"

"Not if I have anything to do with it. But, seeing as I have very little sway, when it comes to such matters, it would appear so."

xXx

Walter smoothed his fingers over his coarse beard. He sighed into the mirror, dipped his hands into the warm water, and began to lather his chin.

The new clothes felt strange, against his skin, as if even a bit too tight. Or perhaps it was his _skin_ that was too tight. There were no bars, on the starched collar of his printed shirt, nothing that said he was any different from the people on the outside. It felt like a costume.

Walter took a deep breath as he raised the disposable razor, and drew it down, across his cheek with a soft scraping noise. He rinsed the whiskers and lather in the basin, and repeated the process. He exclaimed slightly as a cut appeared just below his ear, along his jaw, a bright line of crimson growing on his newly revealed face. He rubbed the blood away with his thumb and continued.

This wouldn't last. He knew it wouldn't. He had seen the contempt on his son's face, and it was only a matter of time before he would be returning.

The steam felt strange against his naked face, and he did not respond to the sting of aftershave as he applied it. Carefully, he gathered his jumpsuit, picking at the bars a bit before folding it and tossing it into the cardboard box. Next was his extensive collection of sporks, paperclips he had managed to acquire from Sumner's desk, and other various bits and bobs he had gathered in his sixteen year imprisonment. Lastly, he settled his box of crayons, his pride and joy. He had nearly every color of the two-hundred set.

One crayon, however, he tucked carefully into the pocket of his slacks.

"Are you ready, Walter?" someone asked, and he looked up from his kneeling position beside the bed.

"Yes, Dr. Sumner," he replied with a soft smile. They said nothing to one another as they walked toward the exit of the ward. They both knew that this was not goodbye.

"Walter," someone called softly, and he paused. Dashiell watched him from behind the bars, "Hey."

Walter looked over his shoulder at Dr. Sumner, who shook his head. Walter ignored him with a frown, approaching the bars, "Hello, Dashiell," he said.

"You're getting out, old man?" Dashiell smiled weakly.

Walter did not reply.

"I'll miss you, old man. And your…well, your beard, I guess," Dashiell sighed, "I guess this is goodbye, then."

"I don't know, Dashiell. Maybe." Walter carefully reached out to clutch a bar, "I really am sorry."

"It's okay. It's not your fault that you're brilliant- I don't think it's any of our faults, really."

"Can I trust you with something?" Walter asked.

"Sure. I'm not going anywhere," Dashiell smirked.

Walter looked back at Sumner, then delved into his pocket, drawing out the violet crayon. He folded it into Dashiell's hand, chewing the inside of his cheek "Take care of this, will you?"

Dashiell smiled, nodding.

Walter smiled in return, turning away, "Walt," Dashiell said, and he looked back, "Stay out as long as you can. I don't want to see you back here," Dashiell grinned, "I guess someone's taken my Bishop."

Walter laughed, "See you around, _sensei_," he winked, striding away.

Dashiell laughed in turn, shaking his head, "I guess he's back to testing soap, then."

xXx

END.


	6. Eplioge

Epilogue.

_Dear Dashiell;_

For hours he had sat, his pen hovering over the page, waiting. Surely there was something more to write than that. So much had happened, already, where would he start? But debating just what to write was painfully difficult.

At last, Walter exclaimed. If he drew a picture, that would take up space, and he wouldn't have to write as much. Then, Walter frowned. What would he draw? He couldn't draw very well, and what would Dashiell do with a bad drawing? Should he send him a picture, then? But that was defeating the point, as he would then have to write just as much as in the first place.

Walter sighed. What would he send to a place that he did not even want to think about? What good news could he possibly offer his friend? _Just a reminder- things are going to hell, out here._ No. Whatever Dashiell saw the world as, it was bound to be better than what it was becoming.

What Walter had caused it to be. He briefly toyed with the aspiration that the world was about to end. If he could tell that to Dashiell, what would he say?

_Tough luck, old man. I told you that your soap was crap._

"Walter?" someone asked, and he jumped. Peter set down the box of files, looking slightly concerned, "are you alright?"

Walter frowned, finding himself slightly flustered, "Yes, fine," he snapped, "Don't interrupt me, boy," and he returned to glaring down at the blank page on his desk.

"Jeez. Sorry," Peter grumbled, shuffling off into the rest of the lab.

"Walter, did you want that article from the _Smithsonian_?" Astrid asked, rifling through her bag as she entered, "I clipped it and saved it for you…"

"Don't _interrupt _him," Peter mocked bitterly.

"She's cute. She can interrupt me all she likes," Walter smiled.

Astrid laughed, touching Walter on the shoulder, "Thanks," and she left the article on the corner of his desk.

"So I'm not cute?" Peter questioned.

"Nope," Olivia answered, turning the page of the newspaper, "in fact, you don't get to _speak_. You're that bad."

Peter laughed, "Ouch!"

Walter smiled, and set the pen to the page;

_Greetings from Bratislava._

(the real) END.


End file.
